The
F o u r t h
N a i l
An Historical Novel
Paul Argentini
The Fourth Nail
Copyright © 2012, by Paul M. Argentini.
Cover Copyright © 2012 Sunbury Press.
NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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FIRST SUNBURY PRESS EDITION
Printed in the United States of America
January 2012
Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-62006-020-9
Mobipocket format (Kindle) ISBN: 978-1- 62006-021-6
ePub format (Nook) ISBN: 978-1-62006-022-3
Published by:
Sunbury Press
Camp Hill, PA
www.sunburypress.com
Camp Hill, Pennsylvania USA
To Dino Enzo Argentini
* Devoted * Brilliant * Brother *
Persist and succeed
Or become wise.
--P.M.A.
* Theme *
Adagio For Strings (from Quartet, Op. 11)
By Antonio Vivaldi (1678-1741)
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This is the only scrap extant of the Marius Diary Scrolls written by Marius of Rome, circa 40 A.D., in which he recorded the world-changing history of Ille Clavus Quartus or The Fourth Nail. Photograph by Roberto Donadio, Ph.D.
Prologue
Rome, 9 A.D.
The servant slinked into the shadowy atmosphere of the bordello.
Arms by his side, he stood inside the doorway in the bare light of a torchere. Out of the gloom, sylphic nudes appeared and preened for him. The Madam moved quickly to his side. She turned her head, tilted her ear.
Into it, he whispered, “Il Senatore Justus.”
With a wave, the Madam scattered the girls. She pursed her lips and tossed her head. She led the way to the better salons. Nodding, she pulled aside the curtains for the servant to enter.
He took a moment to adjust his eyes to the darkness, then moved to the sprawled body of his master. He put his mouth close to his ear. “Senatore Justus!” There was no response. “Patrone!” the servant said louder. The Senatore moaned. “Patrone!” he repeated. The Senatore coughed and hacked. His eyes snapped open. He blinked rapidly fighting the haze. He stared at the servant who was staring back at him. “Patrone! The Speaker for the Oracle. He will wait no longer. If you wish to attend to him, you must come now.”
Senatore Justus sat up. He took a moment to comprehend the message. He nodded, then pushed his face through his hands to clear his mind. His arm stretched for his robe.
A nude held out his toga.
The servant took it. He helped the Senatore dress, tied on his sandals, and led him to the street. “It is a short walk,” he said.
Outside the Senatore stamped his feet to get the spider webs out of his head.
Senatore Justus eased himself into the marble ministerial building. He squinted through the darkness at the curl of smoke rising from an incense pot. Behind it was a hooded, draped figure. The features were hidden, hands burrowed in sleeves.
“Senatore Justus is before you,” the servant announced.
The figure bowed his head.
Long moments passed. The Senatore shifted from one foot to the other. Finally, after another long interval, the Senatore called out, “Speak! Speak! You Greek mouth of a lying Oracle!”
The figure took his time to spread his arms out wide. His voice was deep, somber. “At the moment of birth of your son the air stood still, the earth trembled, there were fulminations in the sky accompanied by immense thunderclaps, the birds did stop singing, no dogs bayed, the rivers churned mountainous curls of foam...”
“Stop! Cease these horse droppings! I want to know what future you see for my newborn son! For that I consult you!” Senatore Justus said charging toward the figure.
“His name, Marius of Rome?”
“Yes! Yes! Marius! Marius of Rome!”
Smoke flooded the hood.
“Well?” the Senatore asked. “What does your Oracle say? Speak! Speak!”
“I hesitate because I’m not sure whether or not it is best to reveal all.”
“Maleditto! Speak it all! Did I pay you for half services!”
“Marius of Rome will be remembered for his service to all humankind...if he survives.”
“What do you mean, ‘If he survives’?”
“The price he will pay will be extreme. His essence will be torqued for all his life,” the figure said.
“What is this he will do...for all humankind?”
The figure shook his head. “Whatever it is, it is his destiny. You must decide now.”
“I must decide what and why now?”
“You must decide before you leave my presence, that’s all the time allowed by the Oracle for the decision to be made whether or not he accedes to this multitudinous historical ascension. Only his father may decide whether Marius of Rome shall live to do this, or live and die ignominiously. You must validate you are his father.”
“I’ll have your life, puzzolento! I’ve already lost my wife during childbirth, and you suggest I add another burial stone? Yes, I am his father.”
“If you allow it, Marius of Rome willingly shall commit a perfidious act upon one of humanity from which, depending on his fortitude, he himself may never recover. You may not wish for him that he do this.”
“And I must decide now whether or not I wish to save him from this bisognio, this business he must do?”
“Yes.”
“And this work is his destiny, you so declare?”
“Yes.”
“Then what’s the difference what I say, maleditto? Destiny is destiny!”
“Perhaps obscurity is his. Perhaps mankind will suffer.”
“What do I care of mankind? Why should I sacrifice my son? Alone you are a convention of ambiguity and corruptness!”
“Interpretation is neither right nor wrong, merely subjective. I speak only what I see as the Reader of the Oracle. I d
o not judge, advise, nor can I explain or change a thing. Some events, circumstances, and occasions remain a mystery even for the Oracle.”
“Really? And you ask me to commit to hacking my son to pieces, or shackle him to a nightmare for life? Charlatan! What if I declare you to be a charlatan?”
“So be it. I have seen what I have seen for this Marius of Rome. Decide what you will for him. Your decision is needed. Now.”
I
Rome 28 A.D.
Marius of Rome rolled off the nude, drained what little wine was left in his cup, and staggered into the salon. “I want another virgin! I’ve used that one up!” he declared.
Stretched out in varying degrees of revealing undress were ladies, men, and boys of the bordello. Erotic marble statues added to the heavy sensual atmosphere. In the smoky light of the low burning lamps also could be seen intertwined and coupling figures posed on low settees and benches.
Madam Chiaro, hair pulled back tightly to a bun at her neck, man’s bony face, skinny body, moved quickly to confront the smirking, broad-chested young man. He was tall, wide-shouldered, with a classic Roman face. “Beatrice!” she called out. She turned to Marius, grabbed his penis and pulled him toward her, “Behave yourself or I knot this! Ah! Bello mio! How handsome! How gorgeous! Look at your muscalatura! In my day I would have you for myself, and you would be gasping for mercy!”
“More wine!” Marius challenged. His attempt to stare into her eyes was an ordeal. He pulled his thick, black, full head of long hair straight back to his neck with both hands.
The comely Beatrice walked to them. “How many times?” the Madam asked her.
“Three,” Beatrice answered.
“Here! Take him to the baths and let him soak!” the Madam ordered. She turned to Marius, “Virgins are virgins the whole night through! Stay off the wine if you wish to frolic until the stars go to sleep, Caro!”
As she turned away, Marius pushed her aside and lunged for the flagon carried by a serving girl. He took it and gulped at the wine as it splashed and washed down his body. Beatrice grasped his hand to lead him away. Easily he shook her off. She went sliding to the floor.
The Madam signaled the bouncer, a massive mound of muscle. He snapped his hands out to corral the youth. Marius lithely jumped away. He picked up a stool. The bouncer lunged. Marius swung the stool. It broke against the bouncer’s upraised arm, and continued around to crunch into a tall burning floor lamp.
The lamp went flying toward Beatrice lying on the floor. It landed just short of her face. The burning oil flew out dousing the side of her face. She screamed uncontrollably as the flames covered her cheek, neck, shoulder and hair. Two boys ran to help her, one flushing her with wine, the other stripping off his tunic and throwing it over her.
Marius caught a blow to his chest that sent him over a bench and into a heap in a corner. He rose unsteadily. He threw a small marble bust at the bouncer. It struck him on the side of his leg, which took the giant down like a felled tree.
Always on the alert for trouble inside the house, and well paid by the Madame, Praetorian guardsmen heard the ruckus and charged in.
“Your father won’t like this, Marius,” a guard said. “Come! You’ve had too much of a good time and too much wine. Let us take you home.”
Marius laughed at the soldiers. His eyes narrowed. Something was not right. He tried to focus on the avalanche of heaving stones in his chest. The full meaning was just beyond his comprehension, but he did know he was responsible for something that had gone terribly wrong.
The soldiers moved in as he jumped over nudes and ran around lounges. He held them off with stools and stands. He didn’t see the bouncer slip behind him to pin his arms. Surprised, he strained and flailed to free himself. A club caught him squarely on the side of his head.
Marius of Rome didn’t even have time to collect his vision of the vineyard. It was his safe place. As a child he could sleep on the huge marble table under the cross-beams laden with vines and leaves and mazzi of grapes. But always he was dappled with sunlight that brought his dreams of his companion, Seraphina, the elfin nymph he created to expand his world and keep his spirit soaring free.
2
New York City, July 13, 1977, A.D.
Without knocking, Dr. Stella Frascatti entered the cavernous room and called to Dr. Americo Donadio. He was seated at his massive desk in his library.
“There is no time to waste! Mariettina is in labor,” she said. “We must get her to the hospital! I have her in the limousine.”
Dr. Donadio smiled at the news. He threw his hands out in supplication. It had to be a son, a son who would carry on his investigative work. He looked around at his lifetime of work searching to prove a religious fact. There was a cathedral ceiling covering an open-centered room. It was two floors high. Except for the windows, books crammed every single bit of space on the walls. In the middle of the floor, computers, video screens, keyboards, and printers filled a huge square table in the center of the room. The computers were filled with language translation software. In his work, Dr. Donadio put in English and took out Ancient Greek; wrote in Cyrillic and printed out Turkish.
A month before, Dr. Donadio and his wife, Mariettina, returned to New York from Italy. Both had been working at the Vatican under a grant from the Clavus Quartus Society. The Society was established in the Third Century under the Emperor Constantine. Dr. Donadio was sure they were within millimeters of discovering vital first century historical documents relating to the Clavus Quartus. He understood very well that the Vatican librarian, Father Strozzare, hindered more than helped his research. Even so, he wanted to challenge the man because he felt discovery was imminent. He was so close, he felt, he asked Mariettina if she would deliver in Rome. There was an issue with her pregnancy: her Italian doctors informed him, in no uncertain terms, that her own doctors in the United States would serve her better.
Stella pulled the limousine up to the emergency room entrance of The New York Central Hospital. A gurney waited for them.
Dr. Donadio was given a surgical gown and mask. In the delivery room he held Marietina’s hand.
For the first time since the hospital was built, the lights in the delivery room blacked out.
In mid-birth, the doctor called out, “Emergency lights! Emergency lights!”
Lights snapped on almost before he said it.
Dr. Donadio watched the birth of their child.
With the nurse busy with the mother, the doctor did not hesitate to help swaddle the babe. Holding it gingerly, he touched the baby on the nose as he solicitously held it out to the father.
The doctor said, “Dr. Donadio, may I present you your son, Marius!”
For almost fifteen minutes, the attending physician, head drooped, surgical mask dangling, waited outside the delivery room.
When Dr. Donadio walked out of the delivery room, he tore off his mask and ripped off his gown.
The doctor grabbed him by his arm, and took his hand. “Dr. Donadio,” the physician said, “Your son is fine. I’m very sorry about your wife. When I saw she was having difficulty early in the delivery, I called in the two specialists.”
“I know,” Dr. Donadio said. “We did not have time to call in her own doctors.”
“Everything possible was done,” the attending said.
Dr. Donadio nodded. “I’m sure they did. Thank you. May I trouble you, Doctor, two things. The lights?”
“I understand it was a massive power failure. It blacked out not just New York City, but all of New York State, possibly all New England! Right up to Canada! Everything! Everything! Traffic lights, theatre marquees, buildings, all over, everyplace! It’s a mess! An unbelievable phenomenon!”
“A phenomenon, truly?” Dr. Donadio said. “I must ask you, Doctor. An anomaly, you called my son, Marius. Do you remember?”
“I did?”
“When he was born you said ‘your son, Marius.’ That name was not even a consideration by us. Who could have told
you it was his name? Why did you call him ‘Marius?’ Where did it come from? Where did you get the name?”
The doctor pressed his eyebrows together. “I called him Marius? Did I? Really? I never heard of the name, ever. Marius? Interesting. I don’t ever recall calling a newborn baby by a name. Nor do I ever recall all the lights in New York going dark.”
“Perhaps you are familiar with my work with early Rome?”
“Sorry. I don’t know you or your work. I happened to be the obstetrician on service. I got a call to attend an emergency delivery that was coming in. That was your wife.”
“Doctor, allow me, are you sure you never have heard the name Marius before?”
The doctor pursed his lips, shrugged his shoulders, and shook his head. “Never. Are you sure you didn’t say it?”
“No, I didn’t say it. How strange this is. Also, it was on the identification band they put on the baby’s ankle. Marius Donadio. How did that come to be?”
The doctor looked into his eyes, shrugged again, and shook his head rapidly.
Dr. Donadio pinched his bottom lip shaking his head slightly. A mystery added to an already deep and dark mystery.
III
Late the next morning, Marius awoke with a full-blown headache. He was in chains. His tunic stank of vomit. He stood in his father’s living room. The aching made him squint. He barely could see his father, the Senatore Justus, pacing; his sister, Cora, standing to one side; his stepmother, Norma, sister of Milo; Milo; and Milo’s son, Virgil, also standing. He sensed the two guards behind him. “Chained? In my own home?” He rattled the chains and glared at his father. It felt like marble dust churning in his stomach. He knew it was an inopportune time for him, but it was deliberately chosen to take advantage of his diminished state. He needed no fortune teller to hint at what was to come.
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